


Gunmetal

by Pandadorable



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Suicide, Pining, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandadorable/pseuds/Pandadorable
Summary: John muses after Sherlock's death
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 5





	Gunmetal

That was it. I couldn't handle it anymore. Depression, insomnia, grief, anger, pain, guilt... Nothing.  
I had had enough. I went through the monotonous routine of every boring day from dawn until dusk. Thursdays. They were different, and yet they were routine. The meetings with Ella. Her incessant badgering for me to open up. To speak my heart out. Pathetic!  
Bedtime though, was horrible. It was a nightmare- quite literally. As it was, sleep never came easily to me. It took me a long time to slip into la-la-land, the tendrils of sleep curling around me. And as soon as I was covered from head to toe, the vines would get infected.  
It would always start with the battlefield. Bullets whizzing past my person as I knelt beside an injured teammate. A bullet ricocheting from a pole and hitting my shoulder. I braced for the inevitable pain, but it never came. All of a sudden, I was standing at the foot of the St.Bartholomew's hospital. Sherlock lying in front of me. Blood gushing from his body. I kneel down beside him; checking for the root of the blood flow so as to stem it. My hands were soaked in blood, but nary a wound could be found. I took his head and placed it onto my lap, softly and feebly trying to reassure him that an ambulance was coming. I stroked his sweat-covered; bloody forehead laying kisses in his hair.  
I could hear the ambulance make its way towards us. Rumbling slowly like an ice-cream truck. In my impatience, I stood up. No sooner had I done that, that Sherlock was falling. Down from the rooftop of the hospital. I could literally hear the sickening crack of his skull as it hit solid concrete. I rushed downstairs towards the immobile form of my dearest friend. As I stepped onto the pavement, I saw that there were huge cracks caused by the fall... His fall. I slowly made my way towards the person I loved, I saw him emerge from the cracks. James. James Sholto. He looked me in the eye before turning towards the prone, un-moving form of my detective. He circled the unconscious man, before ending up, facing me; with Sherlock lying between us. He gave me a smile. A warm smile that reminded me of our secret rendezvous at base. Quite instantly, his smile morphed from loving to sneering as his body changed to that of James Moriarty. Before I could take a step forwards, Jim gave Sherlock a mighty heave with his leg, sending him down the crack James had eventually emerged from.  
That was when I would wake up, sweating and panting as if I had run 26 miles in the blistering desert. I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, as a deluge of salty rain threatened to pour. I would get out of bed, wobbling slightly on my unsteady feet. I would shiver; my whole body trembling as if I was standing on a wildly vibrating floor.  
I somehow managed to walk to the kitchen, usually downing a glass or two of water. After that, I would flop down on my armchair staring listlessly at the one sitting in front of me. Its grey leather mocking me for mourning, while doing the same itself. Sometimes I wondered if it would speak to me if I stared at it long enough; snapping at me for being an idiot. And whenever I imagined it. The leather chair would speak on Sherlock's voice. Always his voice.  
Every time; at that moment, I would decide. Tomorrow, this will end. I shall break out of this monotony once and for all. Move on. Leave all his memories behind.  
Today, I had enough. I knew I couldn't possibly move on. Well as they say. ‘If you can't beat 'em join 'em.’  
I made my way to my room one last time. I pulled out my gun, tucking it into the back of my jeans. Along with that, I also pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen. I Quit. No one is to be blamed. Give my love to Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mike and Harry. Mycroft too. Even though he is was a shit brother.  
*  
I stepped out of 221B, caressing the door and handle one last time. I decided to walk, even though a few taxis were going past, devoid of passengers.  
At each corner I expected to meet someone familiar. Someone from Sherlock's homeless network. Each footstep made a hollow sound on the pavement... Like it was mocking me and my hopeless existence.  
I took the long route to the burial grounds. If I were to be honest, I would say that most places I walked past weren't even on the way. I walked past Angelo's, my head bowed down low hoping that the jolly man wouldn't spy me walk by. I also made a small trip towards the Yard. Not going anywhere close enough to be sighted. My next and second to last stop was the St.Bart's hospital. My feet felt like lead when I tried to get closer to the building. And my resolve crumbled. I dropped to my knees, sobbing hysterically with not a tear in my weary eye.  
Just like it had crumbled, resolve strengthened. It was now made of diamond while earlier it was merely glass. Its glass like fragility turning rock hard.  
I was ready.  
I reached the graveyard near dawn. Just as the sun was starting to peek out of the clouds. Today had finally come.  
I made my way across the oh-so-familiar path towards the black gravestone with the white carving.  
I sat there, my head resting against the cool black tombstone, waiting.The gun lying heavy on my tongue. I moved the muscle in my mouth around the barrel. Metal. Grey. Death. I could taste them all. The tip of my tongue traced the smaller rim of the barrel. I could taste each and every bullet that left this gun. The gun stank of danger. It was exhilarating. Any moment now, my finger would pull the trigger. It would be an unmediated, knee-jerk reaction.  
I waited for what seemed like hours, my finger was frozen on the trigger as if it didn't want the life to slip out of my body; my transport. Against its will, I forced my index finger to curl a bit more, increasing pressure on the fate sealing bit of metal.  
It clicked. And my eyes opened. I pulled the gun out of my mouth, putting the safety on and releasing the magazine. It was empty. I huffed in disappointment as I made myself get up.  
Tomorrow, I would come back. This time, with a loaded Magazine.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written around 2015. I found it when I was riffling through my old files.  
> Hope you like it.


End file.
